


Cross Step Tango

by doomcake



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Fluff, M/M, Most of the rating comes from Gokudera's prime choice of swear words, very mild shipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-23
Updated: 2008-12-23
Packaged: 2018-11-05 20:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11021034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake
Summary: In which Gokudera tries his damndest to teach Yamamoto how to ballroom dance (and hopefully make the Vongola look somewhat less like uncultured fools in the world of Mafiosi).





	Cross Step Tango

**Author's Note:**

> 2017 NOTES:  
> Lol. One of my earlier slash fics in this fandom, and it makes me laugh how embarrassed I was at the time writing this. (IF I ONLY KNEW... haha!)  
>   
> As with most of my KHR fics, this was written via a prompt. For [](http://binni.livejournal.com/profile)[**binni**](http://binni.livejournal.com/) 's Secret Santa @ [](http://khr-exchange.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://khr-exchange.livejournal.com/)**khr_exchange** ; she requested a fluffy 5980 fic that includes ballroom dancing/waltz, rated PG-13.

  
_“I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world /not much remembered when the ball is over.”_  
—Lord Byron

Tinny ballroom music permeates the room, punctuated by the sound of scuffling dress shoes scraping across the floor’s polished tile surface, and interrupted occasionally by an instructional growl in Japanese, sometimes a curse in Italian, or a bark of embarrassed laughter when things go utterly wrong.  
  
“One, two, three, then you step to the left – _ow_! Goddamn it, you idiot; your _other_ left!” Gokudera is scowling, muttering curses in Italian under his breath as he steps back and puts his hand on his knees. “God, sometimes I forget how damn heavy you are!”  
  
“Sorry! Haha…” Yamamoto manages a sheepish look, but he’s still grinning.  
  
Gokudera glares as he steps forward again, shuffling them both back into position irritably. “What the fuck is so funny?”  
  
“Nothing! It’s just–” He steps to the right – no, _left_ – no…  
  
“Get that stupid grin off your face or I’m going to – _OW!_ ” Gokudera drops Yamamoto’s hands and steps away, hobbling a little on one foot. Pointing a shaking finger back in Yamamoto’s direction, he growls, “Okay, that’s fucking _it_. You’re not dancing at the party – it’ll be a goddamned disaster! This is going to make us – make the _Tenth_ – look like fools!”  
  
“But you thought it would be a good idea if–”  
  
Gokudera put a finger up and shook it in Yamamoto’s face, cutting him off. “Shut up. Just… shut up.”  
  
A moment of silence leaves tension buzzing in the air so thickly that Yamamoto is sure he hears it. He shuffles his feet, feeling a little bad that he isn’t living up to Gokudera’s expectations. He knows how important Gokudera thinks this upcoming Christmas party with another mafia family in Italy is for their inter-famiglia relations, and by extension, it should be important to him, too. But it’s not, because it’s kind of funny how _mad_ Gokudera gets every time he accidentally steps the wrong way.  
  
Not that he means to step on Gokudera’s feet every time, of course.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, finally – guiltily. “I don’t mean to disappoint you.”  
  
There’s a moment where Gokudera looks like he wants to be really angry, but after a moment of staring each other down, Gokudera sighs, the anger melting from his shoulders.  
  
“You fucking moron,” he finally says, but there’s not bite behind the words in his tone of voice. There’s even a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips now. “You’re not supposed to be the clumsy one.”  
  
Yamamoto’s grin turns feral. “And you should know this by now, _Hayato_.”  
  
The look on Gokudera’s face after he says that is priceless – his face turns a bright shade of red that reaches his ears, and he quickly turns to look away. “Fuck you.”  
  
Ohh, but this is too much fun. “No, that’s usually your job.”  
  
Gokudera’s face turns a brighter shade of red – if that’s even possible – and he suddenly stands right in front of Yamamoto, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and slamming his back up against the wall.  
  
“Shut the fuck up,” Gokudera hisses, their faces only inches away at this point. There’s almost genuine anger there, but the glint in Gokudera’s green eyes give him away.  
  
“Or else…?” Yamamoto says innocently.  
  
And it’s Gokudera’s turn to grin; it makes the blood in Yamamoto’s veins burn, his heart thudding in his ears. There’s hardly another word before Gokudera’s warm, soft lips are pressed against his, stealing his breath straight from his mouth. Yamamoto’s knees go weak – Gokudera knows just when and how to use his teeth and tongue to drag him down.  
  
Yamamoto doesn’t dare remind him that they’ve left the dancing music on in the background.  
  
… Not that they’ll be needing it now.  
  
… Maybe it would be best to have Gokudera dance at the party, after all.  
  
\--  
  
Yamamoto doesn’t see Gokudera for another week after. An e-mail message on his mobile informs him – in short, simple language – that Gokudera is out on a mission, and not to worry, idiot. Yamamoto can’t help but grin at the last part, because it’s just like Gokudera to show affection by trying his damndest not to. When Gokudera sends him another e-mail saying that he’ll catch up to them in Italy, then Yamamoto begins to worry, but can’t do much about it – there’s too much to get done.  
  
Three days before the party, Yamamoto is pacing the front hallway of the main Italian Vongola estate when Gokudera comes limping back from his mission – and Yamamoto can’t help but glare at him the moment he slams open the door, letting a burst of crisp, snow-laden wind blow through with him. He looks tired, cold – it’s snowing outside – and in pain, but triumphant.  
  
“You’re late,” Yamamoto says with a sharp stare as Gokudera shuts the door behind him.  
  
“Yeah?” Gokudera snarls in reply, whirling around so that he’s nearly toe-to-toe with the taller baseball player. Yamamoto has a hard time ignoring the familiar scent of gunpowder, faint cigarette smoke, and Italian cologne that brings to mind everything Gokudera is, and the anger he initially felt fades into something more akin to worry. “I was doing my job, so fuck you.”  
  
“But you’re hurt,” Yamamoto says, hand moving out to fumble with the front of Gokudera’s jacket.  
  
“It’s just a bruised knee, idiot.” Gokudera brushes his hands away, grumbling. He missteps, stumbles, and hisses, and that’s when Yamamoto steps in and offers a supporting arm. Gokudera glares up at him, but then sighs. “Fine, fine. If it makes you feel better, I’ll have it checked out.”  
  
“Good,” Yamamoto says simply, scanning Gokudera carefully to make sure nothing else is hurting the Storm Guardian, and taking a deep breath as he realizes that the knee is Gokudera’s only injury.  
  
His grip tightens on Gokudera’s sleeve, and Gokudera gives him a questioning look. “What?”  
  
“I was just…” He pauses.  
  
“If you’re going to say worried,” Gokudera snaps, cutting him off, “you shouldn’t have been. I’m here now, aren’t I?”  
  
“But what if–”  
  
Gokudera’s hands land on his shoulders, turning him so that they’re facing each other.  
  
“ _Takeshi._ ” It’s spoken so gently, that Yamamoto blinks before he realizes that his name did just come from Gokudera’s lips, which are gently smiling. “You should know by now that the Vongola’s Storm Guardian is damned near indestructible.”  
  
There’s a warmth in the words that seeps through to Yamamoto’s bones, down to his toes, sending goosebumps up his spine. Of course; he should have remembered – Gokudera is impossibly strong, and even more impossibly stubborn. He smiles in spite of himself, and grabs Gokudera into a tight embrace – Gokudera grunts in surprise at first – with his nose buried in Gokudera’s soft (cold) hair, taking deep draughts of Gokudera’s familiar scents.  
  
“I’m glad you’re back,” he whispers in Gokudera’s hair.  
  
“Me too, you damn idiot.”  
  
\--  
  
At the party, Gokudera manages to weasel his way out of a wheelchair and into crutches instead. The doctor had been pretty angry that the “jackass” had continued walking on the bad sprain in his knee; Yamamoto is surprised that the doctor hadn’t ordered bed rest just to make sure Gokudera didn’t go out and do something stupid again. Yamamoto has to admit he is slightly disappointed that he isn’t going to be able to dance with Gokudera at the party; he has been practicing the entire time Gokudera was gone.  
  
Amidst the crowds of Vongola and the other famiglia’s members, however, Yamamoto finds that there isn’t much time to dwell on Gokudera – who still has the daunting task of playing translator between Tsuna and the other family’s boss. Yamamoto spends much of his time trying to just be pleasantly social with those around him, especially with his limited Italian (Gokudera taught him well, but there’s only so much he can learn in a matter of weeks).  
  
When it comes time to dance, Yamamoto nearly panics at first – he hasn’t actually danced with anyone since his last… _lesson_ with Gokudera. But the practice pays off; he doesn’t stomp on any poor ladies’ toes, nor does he make a fool of himself as he prances across the floor, twirling about with the other family’s women.  
  
He notices that Gokudera is watching him with an unreadable expression halfway through the final dance, and it sends a cold shiver down his spine. Is he doing well? Did he mess up somewhere? What if Gokudera is actually… _jealous_?  
  
_Haha, like Gokudera gets jealous anyway._  
  
After he bows and takes his leave of his last partner, he seeks out Gokudera – and finds him outside on the balcony, leaning over the railing with a cigarette dangling from his lips, crutches leaning off to the side as if forgotten. It’s freezing cold, but Gokudera doesn’t seem to mind the weather in just his nice suit jacket.  
  
“You danced well,” Gokudera says, not turning around as he blows a puff of smoke out of his nostrils. Another puff of smoke, and then Gokudera turns around to face him with that same unreadable stare. “You’ve been practicing.”  
  
It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t an accusation, either. “Haha, is it that obvious?” he replies, rubbing a hand along the back of his head.  
  
“No; I just happen to know how bad you were before I left,” Gokudera replies, flicking ashes to the ground and smirking. “Not bad, for an idiot.”  
  
Yamamoto knows it’s as good of a compliment as he’ll get at the moment, and his grin broadens. He takes another step towards Gokudera. “Not as well as you would have done, though.”  
  
Gokudera snorts, glaring over at his crutches. “Probably not,” he says, and takes another drag. His voice drops another few decibels as he adds, “But we can always test out this theory, _Takeshi_.”  
  
Yamamoto shivers when Gokudera says his name – it isn’t the weather – and walks forward until he stands directly in front of Gokudera. With a smooth flick, the cigarette perched between Gokudera’s long fingers drops to the ground, snuffed out by the cold wind. Awkwardly shuffling himself more upright, Gokudera’s eyes are almost level with Yamamoto’s by the time he’s done; there’s an almost animalistic look in Gokudera’s green eyes that makes Yamamoto’s stomach churn.  
  
“I don’t know how you pulled it off, you moron,” Gokudera says, the last of the cigarette on his breath puffing in a small white cloud between them, “but you really looked great out there tonight.” He lifts his hands to press his palms against Yamamoto’s cheeks, but they’re so cold that Yamamoto nearly flinches at the contact.  
  
“Aren’t you cold?” Yamamoto suddenly blurts, grabbing Gokudera’s hands in his gloved ones. “Your hands are like ice!”  
  
The mood momentarily broken, Gokudera glares at him and gets ready to take an angry swipe at his crutches, and Yamamoto almost feels guilty. First pressing the ice-cold palm of one of Gokudera’s hands to his lips, he then draws Gokudera’s shoulders into his arms – careful of Gokudera’s precarious balance on his sprained knee without his crutches.  
  
“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll try to stop worrying so much.” He takes a deep breath and smiles impishly into Gokudera’s frosty hair. “You still owe me another dancing lesson, you know.”  
Gokudera’s shoulders lose their tension again, and he seems to sink into Yamamoto’s arms even further.  
  
“ _Idiot_ ,” is all Gokudera says, but the warmth behind it holds a promise of things to come later, and that kind of warmth beat out any of the cold the wind could throw at them.  
  
_**end.**_


End file.
